


Prodigal

by Medie



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Alternate Timeline, Gen, Original Character Big Bang, Trek Women, Women Being Awesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-09
Updated: 2010-11-09
Packaged: 2017-10-13 03:44:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/132466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Medie/pseuds/Medie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In every timeline, Winona Kirk has a story. She's the proud mother of a legend, but she's not <em>just</em> that. She's never just that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Prodigal

**Author's Note:**

> This story is loosely inspired by a prompt from the kink meme - Winona Kirk as Spock's captain pre-movie rather than Pike.
> 
> My thanks to alpha_hydra for her beta work (a champion despite the wrath of the computer gods). Any mistakes remaining are mine.
> 
> The artwork for this story was made by the lovely Weaslett and more of it can be found [here](http://community.livejournal.com/themulberrybush/1647.html)

 

The message comes in late. Or early, to go by ship's time instead. It's deep into the Delta shift, long past the point when all good starship captains were supposed to be in bed. Dreaming of strange new worlds, new life, new civilizations, of actually doing something Starfleet'd barely done since the last days of the Earth-Romulan War. Good thing, then, that Winona isn't doing anything quite so rebellious as dreaming.

It's marked personal. Communication routes it to her terminal as a matter of course, an automatic transfer without any special notice. In theory. A glance at the time code on the message and then the chronometer tells the tale. It also betrays to Winona just who's manning the bridge's Comm station and her mouth curves into a smile.

If it was long past the point when good starship captains were to be in bed, she's equally sure that the same could be said for all good Vulcans. Before she reads the message, Winona lets herself laugh at the idea of telling the lieutenant commander that.

T'Meni's reaction would, no doubt, be particularly special. She's tried it before on Spock and he didn't disappoint. "Stop teasing those Vulcans, Win," she tells herself, in her mother's soft drawl. "Next thing, they'll be thinking we don't know proper civility."

"They already think that, Mama," she also recites, finishing the old argument. "They just happen to like it."

She's stalling, she knows that, but Winona gets up for a cup of coffee anyway. Personal messages in the dead of Delta shift don't necessarily mean bad news, Starfleet communication relays are no respecter of shipboard time zones, but there is enough of a correlation that she isn't looking forward to opening hers.

Particularly not with the name and origin this one wears.

She hasn't spoken to Christopher Pike in years. Not since she'd left the Musashi to take the Exec job on the Defiant. He'd been a young lieutenant then, not much changed from the starry-eyed cadet who'd shown up on her doorstep with a dozen and one questions about the Kelvin and a dissertation half-written in hand.

She likes him. She does. He's the kind of officer Starfleet needs. Not so different from her. Frustrated by the inertia, bucking to _do something_ again that isn't brush fires on the Klingon border or three-dimensional chess with the Romulans in the DMZ. She remembers more than one spirited discussion in the Musashi's rec room about exploration-patrol missions and the need to get back out there and try a few again. She's followed his career as best she can. Watched his rise through the ranks, chasing her up the ladder toward the captain's chair. She'd gotten there first with the Defiant, the Potemkin, and now the Excelsior, but Chris wasn't far behind. Some of his missions with the Yorktown and the Columbia had set subspace afire with debate.

Winona sits down with her coffee. In a few years, he'd add the Enterprise to that list. She doesn't envy him that job. The history alone of that ship is enough to choke any captain, much less her. She's had enough of living in history's shadow. The Excelsior will do just fine.

With a soft intake of breath and, maybe, the crossing of her fingers, Winona opens the message.

Jim.

She reads the words twice before she can truly let herself believe them. Jim in Starfleet.

Winona breathes deep and closes her eyes. It doesn't take much imagination to summon the image of her son, the living embodiment of his father's face and his mother's fire, sharp eyes and rebellious grin. She laughs, imaging the hell he'll put his instructors through, and then sighs.

One hand steals out toward the comm, but her door chimes instead.

With a wry grin, she calls permission. The door slides open on her voice, revealing the expected face. In another life, Sulia was the daughter of a pirate queen, an accomplished raider and a criminal in a dozen different systems. Calling an Orion pirate turned Starfleet physician her best friend is probably supposed to be strange, but Winona embraced that title years ago.

"Is that -- "

"Saurian brandy?" Sulia brandishes the distinctive bottle with a grin. "If you're asking, I'd say no," she produces another bottle from nowhere in particular and wiggles it with a little grin. "Particularly not if I happened to bring a Romulan chaser."

"Now that, Doctor, is terribly illegal," Winona says, but gets up anyway. There are two glasses kept in a cabinet just out of sight that come in handy for moments such as this. She produces them and planks them down for Sulia to fill. "I should put you on report."

"As if I'd ever bring anything stolen aboard ship," Sulia sniffs. "I'll have you know they fell off the back of a starship in the Coridan sector. It was purely an accident of fate that I went for an evening spacewalk and stumbled across them. Luck!"

Winona snorts. "How you say that with a straight face is beyond me."

"I'm an Orion," Sulia says, shrugging as she sits down. "I come by it honestly."

"One of the few of your possessions of which you can make that claim," Winona smirks.

"I'd throw this at you," Sulia replies, "but it's too good a brandy to waste." She takes a deep swallow, sighing happily. A second later and she's toeing off her shoes. Bright orange polish, garish even in the subdued light, winks up at Winona, and she rolls her eyes. "So, care to talk about it?"

"About the fact my chief medical officer and my chief of communications are apparently in league?" Winona says, bringing the brandy to her lips. It goes down like engine room hooch on the first swallow, searing over everything in sight, but the second is pure ambrosia, and she's too blissed out to worry about a potential mutiny any longer.

"Not just us," Sulia says with a playful smile, "We've enlisted Spock too."

"You used Christine against him, didn't you?"

"I can neither confirm nor deny that," Sulia says, beaming. "My mother always said 'never tell Starfleet a damn thing' and I listen to my Mama."

"Unless it's when she's trying to turn you into a pirate queen."

"Eh, I have a thing about assassination," Sulia waves her fingers dismissively. "When you run the Orion Syndicate, someone's always trying to introduce you to it and the longer I live, the more I like me. Dying with a poisoned knife in my back and some girl taking my seat is not how I want to go out." She looks over. "And don't think I don't know you're trying to change the subject from your dysfunctional family to mine."

Winona sighs. "Guilty." She holds out her glass. "I take it T'Meni warned you I'd had a message from Earth?"

"No, she said you'd had a message from Christopher Pike," Sulia says. "As I recall, that name's not one that brings up a lot of joy."

"Unfortunate associations," Winona agrees. She settles back with her refilled glass and watches Sulia's face. "It's not bad news, exactly."

"And exactly would mean -- "

"Jim's joined Starfleet."

Sulia's hand stops mid-move, halting her glass a second from her lips. "The youngest? The -- " she bites off the word and tries again. "I thought he was taking a few years to figure things out."

Which is a polite way of referring to it. In truth, Winona isn't quite sure how to refer to it herself. Jim isn't a teenager anymore. It can't be considered a natural part of growing up.

With another mouthful of brandy, Winona quashes the tiny voice in her head. The one screaming of responsibility and failures.

"It's his choice," Sulia murmurs. Her eyes are watching Winona carefully and, Win is sure, not missing a damn thing. "Whatever else happened, what he does now is his choice and, if you ask me, this is the best one he's made in years."

She hadn't, but Sulia never waits for the questions she considers inevitable.

"I don't know," Winona sighs. "I never wanted this life for my boys." Not after losing George the way they had. She smiles, bitter. "I'm not sure I want this life for _me_ anymore."

"Don't you?" Sulia asks.

Winona doesn't answer. She puts down her glass. "You should read the message. Chris goes on and on about his test scores." She smiles. "My son is going to buck the curve at the Academy." She's always been proud of Jim. Always. Even now, there's something in his eye that makes her smile. For all the pain and all the anger between them, she can still see it. The same spark that Christopher must have seen. Her sons are geniuses both, and she adores Sam for all his quiet steadiness as much as she does Jim for his brash brilliance.

"I won't tell Spock," Sulia says, dry. "It'll break his little heart."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Jim's going to do a lot more than buck that curve," Sulia says. "He's _your son_ , Win. He's not going to buck it, he's going to take a torpedo barrage to it, and the last time I checked, your shiny new science officer's the one who set that curve."

"Oh," Winona bites her lip. "That might be a problem."

Sulia's eyebrows rise as she refills her glass. "I'll never understand the Terran propensity for understatement. Your species doesn't wear subtlety any better than mine." She refills Winona's while she's at it. "Of course, this will set off the most epic of all sibling rivalries."

"I know," Winona agrees.

To the rest of Starfleet and the Federation, her shiny new science officer is a rockstar.

Spock of Vulcan. The son of the most legendary romance of the past two hundred years. The man destined to rewrite the history of two worlds.

To her, he's been none of those things. Winona well knows the feeling of being trapped by history and expectation. "I should have seen this coming," she says, sighing.

"Well, not particularly," Sulia shrugs. "If anyone would have thought that Jim would be joining Starfleet, maybe you could have, but really?" She spreads her hands, liquor sloshing over her fingers.

She yelps and Winona laughs, watching her shift the glass from one hand to the other, sucking perfect green fingers clean.

"What?" Sulia asks. "Never waste good liquor, old Orion secret."

Winona shakes her head. "You are ridiculous. Where did I even get you?"

"Same place you got all the crew, Spock included," Sulia says, downing her glass. "The Island of Misfit Toys. We're the officers no one wanted. Well, Spock's the one everyone wanted."

She's not wrong, not on either count. Sulia's the best doctor Winona's ever seen, but no one wanted to take a chance on Orion medical training, even with Starfleet Medical's stamp of approval. Half the crew has a story just like it, and Winona wouldn't trade any of them for a second.

"And, not for the first time, I regret ever introducing you to any aspect of old Earth," Winona sighs, but she's smiling.

"It was a charming story," Sulia defends. "And I made you sit through far worse."

Orion entertainment. Winona shivers at the memory. "You did. I may never forgive you for that."

"You will," Sulia says. "I just haven't figured out a good way yet."

That was also true. Never ever doubt an Orion's ability to make good on a promise.

Winona drums her fingers against her desk, staring at the amber liquid in the glass. Jim in Starfleet. She exhales, refusing to call it a sigh of dismay. She's proud, she is, but she thinks she's a little justified in being afraid. Starfleet took George. It's not a rational association, some unknown Romulan murdered her husband, but she's had two decades to change and she hasn't. Isn't going to. Starfleet took her husband and she refuses to let it take her boys.

"I never wanted this for him," she says.

"You couldn't stop it," Sulia replies. "Even if you could have predicted it, you couldn't have. He's your son."

Even if Orion weren't matriarchal, their lineage traced through the ancient queens and their modern day Syndicate counterparts, Winona would hear the possession there. "And how do you know he doesn't take after George?" she asks, proud of the way her voice doesn't even hitch on his name.

"I've met Sam." Sulia smiles. "I know you. Sam's nothing like you. The way you talk about Jim -- "

"He is," Winona agrees. For all that Jim had inherited George's adventurous streak, he's still every bit her child and therein lies the problem. She remembers her own Academy days, and she was wild enough. Jim, she imagines, will give her a run for her money. "It's why we are the way we are. Why things are so difficult." She breathes out. "Spock hates Jim, you know."

"Of course he does," Sulia says. "Spock thinks you're perfect. The only woman in the universe who can outdo you is his mother. You're his captain. Captains are as close to mothers as young officers can get. He adores you and, thus, hates Jim." She grins, a little lopsided with the alcohol slowly settling in. "He's a Vulcan. You never abandon your family, no matter the circumstances." She coughs, delicate, then sighs. "Well, Spock doesn't."

They don't, precisely, know the circumstances of the estrangement between Spock and his family, but Winona can guess. Most Vulcans eschew intermixed crews, keeping to all-Vulcan Starfleet vessels until Spock had broken ranks. T'Meni numbers among the handful of Vulcans who'd followed his example. An example, Winona knows, that isn't too well thought of in some circles on Vulcan.

Circles in which Spock's father is required to travel.

"He hasn't abandoned him," Winona says, quiet. "He's afraid." She can understand the sentiment. Hasn't met the Ambassador, but she's not sure she needs to. Her relationship with Jim isn't so different.

"You think?" Sulia asks. "They are Vulcans, Win. It's not the same as you and Jim."

"Don't be so sure," Winona sighs. "Parents worry about their children. Spock's the first child of Vulcan and _Earth_. That's a mix no one thought would work and the pressure on him to succeed -- " She finishes off her drink. "If I were Sarek I'd be worried." She shakes her head. "Belay that, I _am_ worried."

"And there's why Spock adores you so much," Sulia says, "and why we should hope, very much, those two never serve together."

Winona closes her eyes. "It would be an unmitigated disaster."

"And that's being kind." With a smile, Sulia refills her glass. "Drink up, Captain, and then get yourself to bed. We'll worry about hypotheticals in the morning."

Winona's never been particularly good about following her doctor's orders, but Sulia's always been different. She teases, cajoles, and cons until Winona finishes her drink and somehow makes it from the living area to bed. Along the way, she loses her uniform, acquires some Starfleet issue sweats, and brushes her teeth, all under Sulia's watchful eye.

"Now," Sulia says when she's done, "bed."

"You know," Winona says around a yawn, then another before she can finish, "I am actually an adult capable of taking care of herself."

"Perhaps," Sulia says, but her hands still push Winona in the direction of the sleeping area, "but I'm still going to do it for you. It's in the job description."

"Is not," Winona says, lying down. "I've read it."

"Maybe not in yours," Sulia drapes a blanket over her, turning to go, "but definitely in mine."

Possessing a healthy sense of self-preservation, Winona says nothing and lets her leave. Starship captains live longer that way. Chief Medical Officers are not to be messed with.

-

"Good morning."

Sulia sweeps into the briefing room with two cups of coffee, her PADD tucked beneath her arm, and an unrepentant grin plastered across her face. "Drink that," she says. "And when we're done, breakfast."

"I've eaten!" Winona protests.

Sulia's answer is a snort and a muttered, "We both know whatever you ate was a pitiful excuse for breakfast."

"Must you be so damn cheerful in the morning?" Winona grumps, taking one of the cups from her and flatly refusing to even consider the idea that Sulia might be right. She is, of course, not acknowledging the point as that would require consideration and, therefore, cannot happen.

"It annoys you," Sulia says, blithe and uncaring, "of course I do." She winks and flicks her ponytail, long and straight today, back over her shoulder. She lets a PADD fall free from beneath her arm and then slides into her chair. "So, feeling better?"

The question is asked with light-hearted playfulness, but the eyes peeking out at her from beneath thick, black bangs are deadly serious.

"Moderately," Winona says with a slight wave of her coffee cup. "I've decided something."

"May the Goddesses and their attendants help us all," Sulia says and, Winona thinks, is halfway joking. "What have you decided?"

Winona sips her coffee. "It's a good thing."

"That's not what you've decided," Sulia shakes her head. The ponytail whispers back and forth across her shirt as she does, rasping against the fabric. "That's what you already knew."

Briefly, Winona considers sulking. She's never been fond of being easily read and Sulia reads her with an ease that should be frightening. At the moment, she's going with reassuring and says so.

"Ah, well, thank you very much, but that's also not a decision," Sulia sits back, coffee in hand. "That is an acknowledgement of one of the fundamental laws of the universe. You spend a sleepless night with some brandy and some news, then realize that news will likely result in your surrogate son and your actual son meeting and despising each other -- well, you don't get to keep decisions made on that to yourself."

"I've decided that Jim and Spock will meet and will despise each other," Winona says, smiling. "It's the only logical conclusion. If I decide that they will meet and hate each other, then there's a better than good chance they won't."

"And this comes about because of what?"

The thing about the universe is that it's alive. No amount of research or logic will ever convince her that the universe is both sentient and unrepentantly evil. If not evil, then certainly hostile where the Kirk family is concerned. "The universe hates me. Anything I say won't happen, most certainly will happen and anything I say won't -- "

"While that's not the strangest thing you've said, Win, it's not far from the truth." The door slides open and senior officers start filing in, including one possessing a familiar pair of ears. "Well," Sulia amends, " _Captain_ , I suggest we table this for later."

Winona nods. It just wouldn't do for the crew, even her senior staff, to see her being so maudlin. Particularly not over personal matters. "Capital suggestion, Doctor." She brushes her fingertips back and forth across the table, feeling the smooth surface against her skin. It's a silly thing, but somehow it always works when she wants to think. Not about Jim, though that's going to be dominating her thoughts for a while, but about the mission. This ship.

She watches the senior staff file into the office, sliding into their seats. Island of Misfit Toys. Sulia's words bring a smile. She's not sure why she did this. She's not sure why she went back into space when she'd spent months telling herself that the Engineering Corps and Class Development had been her true goal. She'd meant that when she'd told Sulia that.

She'd hesitated when Starfleet offered her the Excelsior, she'd intended on saying no, but she's here. Here on an exploration-patrol mission with the Romulans and Klingons sniping at each other's heels, the Federation still caught up in the cautious indecision the Kelvin's loss had mired them in and, while she has no idea why she said yes, she's not sure she regrets it either. There's something about this place. This chair, this position, surrounded by so many different eyes and so many different viewpoints.

She tries picturing Jim in her shoes. The thought of it makes her smile wider. She watches as T'Meni takes a seat across from her. They're only a few months out of space dock, the shakedown cruise barely over, and yet...

"Lieutenant Commander," she says, with a nod. "Late night?"

T'Meni inclines her head in a nod of her own. "It seemed the most appropriate time to conduct a panel replacement."

"Tinkering again?" Winona can't help the grin that steals across her face. "Tell me, if I were to look at your station, would I even remotely recognize the configuration?"

"In all likelihood, you would not," T'Meni laces her fingers together. "I have prepared a report for your perusal. If it meets with your approval, I intend to submit it to Starfleet for consideration. I believe it might prove quite useful."

There's a gleam of interest in her eye that's familiar. T'Meni is Winona's kind of people. There's nothing she likes better than taking that panel apart and finding new and improved ways of putting it back together. She hadn't expected that at first, but there's a lot about T'Meni that doesn't quite fit the profile. From her short stature, her curves, and the dark red hair, she looks nothing like the stereotypical Vulcan woman. Fitting, since she isn't.

Another reason they get along so famously. Like Winona, T'Meni's never been all that good about following the expectations of her people either.

"Send it to me," Winona says. She resists the urge to wiggle her fingers in request for the PADD sitting before T'Meni on the table. She's willing to bet there's a copy of said report just waiting to be read. Except -- "I read it now, and we're not going to get a damn thing done this morning."

T'Meni nods. "I will do so."

For her quiet entrance, the next officer through the door fixes that entirely. "Explain something," Mai Chao announces, breezing into the room with a carelessness that belies her sleep rough voice.

"I can explain a great many things, Lieutenant, if you so wish," Spock says, behind her. "However, I will require a specific topic from which to begin."

"Okay," Mai says, completely unimpressed by him. "Why do we have these things so damn early in the morning?"

"To annoy you," Spock says without hesitation. "I am told it is one of Captain Kirk's greatest joys."

"Ooooh," Sulia laughs. "I think he's learning, Lieutenant."

"He _is_ ," Mai agrees, looking positively delighted. "Commander, that one was _impressive_." The navigator all but bounces into her seat, riding the delight of their little victory high. "I think he has a lot of potential, Captain," she says, turning to face Winona.

"I think that I don't disagree with your assessment, Lieutenant," Winona replies, amused by their antics. "However, I think you might be underestimating the commander's skills just a little."

At her side, Sulia snorts just a little. There's a practised feel to the action, it's another of many such learned behaviours. Winona's noticed them in most of the non-human crew. Mannerisms and sayings appearing in their repertoire that definitely aren't theirs, practised and practised until they're almost organic but never quite sit right. It used to bother her, until she noticed herself doing the same around them. She doesn't hide her laughter and smiles around T'Meni or Spock, but she does mute them. It's not that she thinks they'd mind or that they're offended by her humanity, just as she's sure neither they nor Sulia think she does. It's never about that. At least, it's never been that for her.

It's not even that it makes things easier, it probably has no effect either way, but it's the perception. At least, she thinks it's the perception. She's not exactly an expert on interspecies relations.

Either way, Mai grins. "Oh, I'm sure," she says. "But I think Spock enjoys leaving me my misconceptions."

"Or at least waiting for the prime moment to crush them," Sulia says, all innocence when everyone looks her way. Innocence is not an expression that she wears well, but she's not even trying. There's an edge of careless glee to it and she doesn't look up at them. "Am I close, Commander?"

"I am not able to comment at this time, Doctor," Spock replies, equally innocent. He settles in across from Winona and laces his fingers together. "I believe it would be disruptive to the briefing."

"Hmm, because we're the very definition of structure and order," Mai says, half under her breath. She peeks Winona's way with a little smile, tentative as she tests the waters. Winona's never been the type of captain who demanded one hundred percent devotion to spit and polish. Despite the beliefs of some drill instructors at the Academy, she's of the opinion that Starfleet functions better with a reduced focus on it. If her crews past and present were any judge, she was right on the matter.

She looks around at them as the rest of the senior staff files in. She wants Jim to have this. These relationships and experiences. She wants him to know what this life is like and, as much as she hates space for what it's stolen from her, she wants him to know how it can keep you going. It was her children and the stars that had gotten her out of bed those first few terrible days after George. The need to see her babies faces and look up at the night sky. Even when just beyond them she could see the Kelvin shattering into debris, when she could hear the screams of the dying, she still needed to know they were there.

Her eyes go to Spock, watching him slowly shape the staff, corralling them into a coherent meeting. He meets her gaze and, for a second, she can see the same reflected in his.

They've all found their escape here, whatever else they've faced. Winona nods, approving, and she thinks he almost smiled.

-

The briefing goes largely as expected, something Winona can lay at the feet of her executive officer. Spock is young, new to the position, and there are moments that his inexperience shows, but very few of them. The morning briefings rarely see them at all. Among her senior staff, the mix of experience is varied, but there are few officers with less than Spock, and yet he handles them well.

Leaving the briefing, she lets herself mull that over for a while, content to consider the kind of captain she can see him becoming.

"You know, if this were a Klingon vessel, you'd be dead right now."

Winona looks at Sulia and her grin with fond annoyance. "If this were a Klingon ship, Doctor, you'd be in a hell of a lot of trouble right now."

"Hardly," Sulia sniffs. "I've done business with Klingons. I'll have you know I'm quite highly respected among the houses."

With a soft snort, Winona shakes her head. "If you think I believe a word of that, Sulia, we have a problem."

"We have many problems," Sulia shrugs. "It's an unfortunate part of life. Cranky Klingons on one side, scheming Romulans on the other, the Syndicate snapping at the heels of both just waiting for it all to blow apart, and that's not even considering what else might be lurking in the non-aligned systems."

"Pessimist."

" _Realist_ ," Sulia shoots back, but without any true heat. She casts a glance down at the PADD in her hand. Winona watches with amusement as she navigates the corridor while reading, her attention apparently focused on the PADD's screen while her body deftly avoids any oncoming traffic. "Stop laughing at me. Just because you can't do it -- "

"I can," Winona says, amused. "It's just not seemly for a captain to get caught with her nose stuck in a PADD."

Sulia's response to _that_ is a hand gesture that's illegal in a half-dozen systems and considered quite rude in a dozen more besides.

"You do remember the part where you're supposed to be the senior medical officer on one of Starfleet's most advanced ships, correct?" she asks, steering Sulia in the direction of the turbolift. "If not, Doctor, allow me to remind you. Senior officers aren't supposed to be crude." She waits until the turbolift doors close before adding, "At least not where anyone junior can hear."

"Which is why you're about to cuss me out in High Andorian?"

"Which is why I'm considering it," Winona says. "One does not simply default to High Andorian. Those are some impressively crude responses and not to be used lightly." She grins. "I do know a few Klingon phrases I'm considering testing out on you however."

"Breaking out Klingon, I'm impressed," Sulia says. She offers a faint smile and then there's silence. It's awkward, and that's something they never are. Have never been.

At the turbolift, Winona looks at her. "You're worried?"

"About?"

"That's what I'd like to know," Winona says. She passes a hand over the door control, calling the turbolift to their deck. "You're quiet. You're _never_ quiet."

"I'm not worried." Sulia waits for the door to slide open and admit them before she adds, "I'm considering."

" _Considering_?" Folding her arms, Winona lets Sulia do the driving and select their deck. "You're tapdancing around the subject."

"Tapdancing?"

"Old Earth ritual used to humiliate children and dodge uncomfortable subjects," Winona clarifies. "Tapdancing. I'll show you it sometime."

"I'd rather you didn't." Sulia leans against the turbolift wall and watches her. "It sounds awful enough from your description."

"It's not awful," Winona promises. "Though some children think that it is." She moves closer. "All right, since you're doing your absolute best to avoid the subject, let's just address it head on. What are you avoiding?"

Sulia closes her eyes. For a moment, and only a moment, her control wavers. Winona can see a glimpse of genuine concern behind the laughter. Then Sulia's looking at her with a smile. "It's my job to worry about you, all right?"

It's not the truth. Not precisely. There's something else there, deeper, that she doesn't dare question. At least, not right now.

"All right," she says, with a nod.

The turbolift comes to a stop, smooth as silk, and the door slides open.

"I believe this is your stop," Sulia says, quietly.

Winona looks at the open door. "It is." She turns her head and looks at her. "We're not done."

She's surprised by the grin she gets in response. "I hope not," Sulia says and gives her a push forward. "Now, go. Command something."

-

"I'm a starship captain, I can do this." Defeated, Winona stares at her console and tries once more to will herself to open a channel. She can do it direct, bypass the bridge entirely and call Starfleet Academy. She doesn't even need to go through Starfleet Command. It's the captain's privilege and no one would question it.

Except she can't.

She sits back, drumming her fingers on the desk. Cowardice isn't a career maker in Starfleet. Isn't a career maker anywhere. She needs to be able to do this. She needs to talk to her son. It's a major moment in his life. She'd spend hours and hours on the comm with Sam when he'd decided on his university major. They'd talked every possible scenario, Starfleet and civilian, and she cherishes those memories. She knows that Sam can and will call her for advice.

Jim never has and, possibly, she resents him for it. She's his mother and she's supposed to be the stronger person, but she's human. She can be forgiven for this one weakness. At least, that's what she's been telling herself. Is telling herself.

She turns the chair away from the console, her eyes falling on the on of the few pictures she permitted herself to take. George smiles back at her, with a smiling Sam hanging off his shoulder, and she shuts her eyes. "I'm sorry," she tells him softly. She's alone, but somehow she can't make her voice do anything more than the barest of whispers.

Guilt.

She's failed them all. George. Jim. Sam. She's failed them all so much. "Now you're just being melancholy," she mutters and gets up, looking for the replicator. A mug of steaming hot coffee and a muffin is what passes for dinner―she'll catch hell when Sulia checks the replicator logs―but it gets her away from the console and her funk.

Food in hand, she sits down and stares out at the stars. Commanding a starship. She'd always thought that the most difficult job in existence, but it's nothing compared to raising her sons. She's heard her reputation. She knows that she's thought of as one of the best captains in Starfleet. She comes alive in that chair.

Her personal life, however, is a complete disaster.

She takes a bite of the muffin.

"Sulia to Captain Kirk, knock that off at once."

Looking ceilingward, Winona raises an eyebrow. "Kirk here, what precisely am I knocking off and where did you hear that phrase?"

"There's this little place, Starfleet Academy's main campus is there? San Francisco? I'm not sure if you're familiar with it or not, but it's positively teeming with human beings and said human beings are excessively fond of the most ridiculous expressions throughout the known universe," Sulia says, sweet as pie. "I'll take you there sometime. As for what you're knocking off, you know precisely what it is."

"I'm sorry, Doctor, but I really don't."

The answer she gets back is so filthy the universal translator absolutely refuses to lay a circuit on it.

"I'm sorry, Doctor, but I don't think that I understood you."

"The hell you didn't," Sulia says. "Don't make me come up there, Win. It's against regulations for me to render my captain unconscious without a really, really good reason."

"And you don't have one?" Winona asks before taking a swallow of coffee. It's godawful, as expected. Never trust engineers to program coffee into a replicator.

"My captain feeling sorry for herself just doesn't qualify," Sulia replies, annoyed. "No matter how much I wish that it did."

"And how exactly do you know that's what your captain is doing?" Winona asks.

"I'm a doctor, we're amazing like that. There's a course at Starfleet Medical, but it's medical personnel only."

"Well, it would seem that you're in need of a remedial class or two, Doctor," Winona says. "I'm not feeling at all sorry for myself."

"You're drinking replicated coffee and eating a chocolate chip muffin," Sulia says. "Correction, a _double_ chocolate chip muffin."

Winona winces. "Busted?"

"Absolutely," Sulia says. "That is your tried and true comfort food. Has been since the Academy."

How she knows that, Winona doesn't want to know. It wouldn't be at all beyond the realm of possibility for Sulia to have bribed, cajoled, or possibly even pleaded her way into that information. "All right," she confesses, sighing. "You got me."

"You should just call him," Sulia says.

"And yet I can't seem to make myself."

"Captains are allowed to be scared, you know. Even when you're on duty. It's not against the rules. I checked."

She has. Sulia's annoyingly thorough that way.

"I know I'm allowed to be scared," Winona sighs. "It doesn't mean that I like it any more than I like the eerie way you seem to be able to read minds."

"Only yours," Sulia says, "Otherwise, I would've skipped Starfleet and made a fortune."

"Liar," Winona laughs. She leans back. "You know, some day we're going to talk ship's business."

"That's what you've got a first officer for," Sulia says. "Spock's remarkably efficient that way."

"He keeps this up, I'll be out of a job." Which is unlikely. Spock's in no hurry for a command. She suspects that when she moves on, Starfleet will have quite a job on their hands convincing him to replace her.

"Oh yes, absolutely. Spock'll be captain the day I transform into the Great Bird of the Galaxy," Sulia says, snorting. "I think command would be about the only thing in the universe that could make that man cry."

Winona sputters, curses, and sputters some more. "I hope you know, Doctor," she says in the gravest tone possible, "that you just made your captain spill her breakfast all over her uniform."

"Good," Sulia says, suddenly serene. "That means you can eat a proper one. See you in the mess hall in five. Sulia out."

Annoyed, Winona looks down at herself. " _Orions_."

-

"Captain."

Framed by the door, backlit by the brightness of the bridge lights, T'Meni looks almost apprehensive. It's not a good look on her and certainly not one that Winona enjoys seeing.

"What is it?" she asks, laying down her stylus.

"There is a call," T'Meni steps closer, but one step only. Just enough to take her inside the door and let it slide closed behind her. "From Starfleet Academy."

"The commandant?" Winona asks, mentally crossing her fingers. At the rate Jim's going, Sulia will be calling in favors from every corner of the quadrant to keep them both in good liquor.

"Captain Pike."

Chris Pike.

"Captain Christopher Pike?" she says, feeling like the world's largest idiot even asking the question, but it's out before she can stop it. The disbelief is near insurmountable, but it runs second to the worry. Pike's calling her in person. After years of silence, Christopher Pike is calling her.

She can understand why T'Meni didn't just call from the bridge. The care she takes with her human shipmates' emotions belies the Vulcan reputation for cold-hearted distance.

"Thank you, Lieutenant Commander," she says, rubbing at her temples. "I appreciate the extra effort."

T'Meni nods, taking the dismissal as intended. She ducks out, and Winona knows she won't be at her station ten seconds before Sulia gets a call.

Cold-hearted indeed.

She looks at her desk console. There, in the corner, flashes the incoming message. A thousand light years away, in the middle of a San Franciscan morning, Christopher Pike's sitting at a desk and counting off the seconds until she answers the call.

A call she doesn't want to take.

It's not his fault, or hers, but it's there anyway. Chris is a constant reminder. A connection to the worst (and best) day of her life. He's a connection in a way that Jim has never been. She's never once looked at her little boy and thought of that, but even hearing Pike's name brings her right back there. She can smell the smoke in the air, acrid and harsh, hear the alarms, and feel her body seizing in the agony of childbirth and a ship being ripped apart around her.

She resents him for it. Him and then herself for resenting him.

Breathing deep, she holds it for a second and then opens the channel. A second later, Christopher Pike appears on the screen. He's older. It's not a surprise, but it is just the same. She takes that in even as she wonders how she must look to him. Whether or not the years have been kind, she can't tell and doesn't ask. "Captain Pike."

"Captain Kirk."

There's silence then, awkward and stiff, and she shakes her head. "I'm sorry, it's been quite the day."

"Shakedown cruises."

She nods. "Essentially."

"Hearing about Jim can't have helped much."

"Not particularly," Winona agrees. "I can't say that I think it's a mistake. It isn't." And it isn't. For as much as she's not sure whether or not it's something she wants to see for Jim, if it's something she can bear, she knows it's right. Even if he weren't her son, she can see the potential in him. The potential that was always there that he's spent years wasting. "It's just unexpected."

"It is at that," he says. "I wasn't expecting it either. Walking into that bar and finding your son?"

"How is he?" she asks, the words blurting out of her. "How is my son?"

This is not a conversation that she's been eager to have. The sight of Chris brings up old memories and it's not fair, but Winona can't help the reaction. She looks at him, years away from the wide-eyed youth at her door, and she feels George's absence all over again with those razor sharp edges of a loss still fresh.

She curls her fingers around her coffee cup, wishing for Sulia and her brandy, and waits for Chris's answer.

"Hell on wheels, but that's not surprising you much, is it?"

Winona manages a smile and a shake of her head. "Of course not." She tries to picture Jim in her favorite Academy hangouts and lets herself cringe. If he's planning half the things that she did, then God help his instructors. "His scores look good."

"His scores look like yours," Chris replies. "Scary impressive. If this kid doesn't beat every record into the captaincy, it won't be for lack of trying." He leans forward, into the screen, like he's about to impart some great truth. "You should see him, Winona. It's _incredible_ the things he's accomplished in his time here."

She knows. Chris isn't the only one she's talked to, he's the last in a long line if she's honest, but he's the one that knows best and she's not sure she's ready to hear all of it. "He's technically proficient, but what about the rest of it?"

"It's more than technical," Chris assures. "I won't lie to you, Winona. When I met him, Jim looked like the perfect disaster. His file -- " he sighs "--well, you've seen his file."

Winona laughs, but it's weary with years of arguments and disappointments behind it. "I have. I imagine his Academy record will be colourful in similar fashion." She leans back in her chair and crosses her legs. "But that's not what you're trying to tell me, is it?"

"You're right," he agrees. "It isn't. There's something to him, Winona. I can't describe it, but Jim has it."

She doesn't need him to explain. There are captains trained, but there are captains borne, and it's in Chris's expression which category that Jim falls into. She nods, taking that in.

She misses George. At that moment, she misses George like she misses the sun and the breeze on her face. It aches, down deep, and each breath of recycled air is a constant reminder.

George would have loved this, and it's a new ache to be added to the longstanding collection.

On the screen, Chris nods. "He would be," he says, answering the unspoken comment. George is a topic that's off limits between them. They've never agreed to it aloud, that would require mentioning them, but the agreement exists nevertheless. This is as close as they're ever going to get and neither of them have a problem with that.

Winona doesn't swallow a sob. She's cried herself out and then some, but her throat tightens just the same. She looks down at her desk and the reports blinking at her from her PADD, willing herself not to feel the grief.

It isn't that she expects it to be gone, it's a wound one learns to live with, but she can't feel it right now.

"There's a betting pool," Chris says, drawing her gaze up again. He looks as awkward as she feels and that's an odd comfort, but a comfort nonetheless.

"A betting pool?"

"On how long it takes him to make captain," he says, and smiles. She remembers being the subject of a similar pool herself. "Care to go in? I can give you good odds."

"I shouldn't," she says, smiling herself, grateful for the slight change of course. "I have an unfair advantage."

He nods, "True enough." He hesitates, then adds, "I'm sorry I didn't call and tell you in person."

"It's fine," she says. "Nothing beats the Starfleet grapevine for speed. If you wanted to beat the gossip, there weren't many options."

"Still," he says with a smile that's a little rueful, "let me have my regret."

She laughs. "I can hardly take it from you." Not when she has a world of them herself.

-

There's no brandy this time. Sulia's sitting on the couch in Winona's quarters, boots scattered on the floor and legs tucked up against her side. With a steaming cup of coffee in one hand and a PADD in the other, it's all terribly domestic if one ignores the flagrant violation of privacy codes.

"Some day, Security is going to have your head for this," Winona says, sitting down. She pulls off her own boots, wiggling her toes and savouring their freedom before throwing a considering look the replicator's way.

"For what?" Sulia asks, thumbing through the PADD's entries.

"Flagrant misuse of a medical override?"

"Pffah, no they won't." She casts a look Winona's way. "They have to take physicals too."

"And I can think of so many reasons why that shouldn't reassure me," Winona says, getting up, "and yet it does."

"I'm a good friend." Sulia takes a deep swallow of coffee. "So, should I be making an appointment with the counselor for you?"

"Why?" Winona asks, punching an order into the replicator. "I have you." She smiles over her shoulder, hoping the gesture takes the edge of her blunt words. "I'm fine."

"No, you're not," Sulia says. "You are, however, imminently talented at coping."

"It's all the practice I've had." Taking her plate, Winona sits at the table, but angles toward the couch. "He wanted to tell me about Jim's progress."

"Hmm, yes, I hear this year's crop has a few geniuses lurking in it," Sulia says. "Christine turned me on to this kid in the Medical track." She raises her eyebrows. "From all accounts, he's impressive. I'm thinking of trying to poach him."

"That good?" Winona asks, though she already knows the answer. That Sulia is bringing him up tells her everything about the man's capabilities. She doesn't wait for the answering nod from Sulia before giving one of her own. "Feel free to poach all you want." She lets a little ruthlessness creep into her smile. "They'll be staffing the Enterprise before long."

Sulia smirks. "So, basically, it's about Pike and not Leonard H. McCoy, Medical wunderkind?"

"I want the best people for this ship possible," Winona replies, but that smile hasn't gone anywhere. "If this doctor of yours is the best person for the job, then I want him. That I might snatch him out from Chris?" She laughs. "Well, that doesn't hurt."

"You would have made a fine Orion," says Sulia with a ruthless smile of her own.

"I'm going to take that as a compliment," Winona says, getting up. "I'm going to shower. Will you be here when I get back?"

Sulia shrugs, waving the PADD. Winona takes it as an assent and ducks into the bathroom. Some day she's going to suggest that Sulia just move in, seeing as her own quarters seemed to have fallen into glorified closet space. They could use the space.

She grins, shucking her uniform. Somehow, she has a feeling that Sulia would make that particular negotiation pretty damn interesting. Piracy is hardly a trait confined to Orions, but Sulia certainly had cornered the market on it aboard the Excelsior.

Convincing her to give up her quarters most certainly wouldn't come cheap.

"Poor Sam," Winona sighs, stepping into the shower. "Sold on account of square footage. He'll never forgive me."

-

They're headed for a nearby nebula, have been for a few days, with Spock all geared up and eager to test out his new sensor modifications, when the call comes in. Winona's buried in the ship's latest reports, Spock's data on the sensors included, and misses the chime.

"Captain Kirk."

Number One is newly-promoted, but days and weeks don't matter where Illyrians are concerned. She'll be as sharp and shiny in ten years of that uniform as she is now. Lacing her fingers together―nails painted a sparkling gold that makes Winona smile―she doesn't precisely smile in greeting, but there's a warming nonetheless.

Winona can see why her commanding the Intrepid hasn't generated nearly the level of controversy anyone had expected.

"Captain," she says in return, settling in behind her desk. "How is it?" It's not smalltalk. They've never bothered with that, Illyrians are no better at it than Engineers, and Winona enjoys the freedom.

Number One pauses, giving thought to her answer. "To borrow a turn of phrase? Fascinating."

Winona's tempted to laugh, settling on a soft chuckle. "Appropriate." She reaches for her coffee. "I've heard noises about the Intrepid being reassigned to a new sector." One a little closer to the Romulan neutral zone. It's not the first ship Starfleet's pulled from an exploration/scientific mission to babysit the Romulans. Since the Kelvin, it's been a common, if somewhat random occurrence that's meant to keep their neighbors nervous. Whether it's working or not, no one outside of Starfleet Intelligence can say. "Any planets look good?"

"Possibly," Number One agrees. Her expression changes with the undertone creeping into the conversation. Their channel is encrypted, T'Meni watching for possible interception, but Winona's not risking anything in open conversation anymore than Number One. "We've heard rumors about a lost colony in the area. Possibly a Vulcanoid civilization. The potential for Reformation-era relics has our xenoarchaeologists beside themselves in glee."

Number One pauses, then almost smiles. "In a most-Vulcan fashion, of course."

"Of course," Winona nods, noncommittal in her agreement. She rubs her fingernail against the coffee mug, eyeing the black liquid inside. She's dying to ask, the need for discretion not dulling it in the least. She envies Number One this mission, even if she understands why the Vulcans have taken matters into their own hands.

A lost colony indeed.

From a certain perspective, it's not that much of an exaggeration. Enough Vulcans have vanished from systems adjacent to Romulan space to easily populate one, but still...

"Copy me on the mission report?" Winona asks, finally looking up.

"Hoping for the remnants of a vessel?"

"The Vulcans have had some form of interstellar travel for two-thousand years," Winona makes a face. "You know they're holding back some of the good stuff just to spite us."

A slight tilt of Number One's head is all that passes for an answer.

"Just keep me apprised," Winona says, laughing.

"And while we are on that subject," Number One says, before she can, "I spoke to Chris." She looks intrigued. "He told me about your son joining Starfleet."

The comment is pointed in its vague edges, and Winona bites the inside of her cheek. She doesn't quite know how to take it. Number One has always been quite difficult to read. At least, to Winona she has. "He seems to be burning up subspace."

Number One half-smiles, reaching for her coffee. "It seems to be." She takes a small swallow. "Chris is excited."

"Mm," Winona nods. It's noncommittal, but there's still a lot about the situation she needs to unpack. It would be easier, perhaps, if they were speaking, but therein lay the rub as it were. She and Jim haven't spoken in years. Not since before she'd taken the Excelsior and, even then, their conversations hadn't exactly been the best.

Stilted. Awkward. Not the stuff of mothers and sons.

She exhales. A subspace channel to Earth would be no greater challenge for T'Meni than contacting the Intrepid, but the reverse was also the same. Jim can call her just as easy.

"And?" Winona says, reminding herself of that to crush the sudden onslaught of guilt.

"He reports that, despite your son's best efforts to the contrary, Starfleet Academy is still standing," Number One smiles. "I was told to emphasize best efforts. It would seem, Winona, that were it not for his astronomically high test scores, your son would have been cashiered out of the service before even joining it."

"A record even for the Kirks," Winona agrees. She breathes out, relieved, and finds herself crushed beneath a wave of guilt anyway. "That's my boy," she says, soft. If it's easy to contact Chris, then speaking to Jim would be just as much so. Easier.

Beneath the desk, she stretches out her legs, wishing for Sulia and another one of her bottles to appear at the door. This time, the Orion keeps her distance, and Winona mentally swears a streak or two at _that_.

Number One is silent. There are no offered words of advise, no admonishment to call her son, and no attempts to explain the complicated nature of grief and loss. If the idea of marriage still didn't feel like a betrayal, Winona thinks she might propose.

"Thank you," she says.

Another nod is Number One's response. "You are most welcome." A few seconds more of conversation and they're closing the channel. Winona wishes her well, if only within the safety of her own thoughts, on the search for Vulcan's lost. Still nothing from Number One, but Winona can imagine what a few of her wishes might look like.

She smiles in the privacy of her cabin and then wipes at a tear. She's never regretted staying in Starfleet. She can't. Even on the days when she hates it for what it's stolen from her, worrying about what it might steal from her sons, she can't regret her decision. She does, however, regret how things stand with Jim. She always will.

It's not solely her fault that they don't talk. Winona knows that. Jim's a grown man who makes his own choices. She's silent, but so is he and neither of them can pretend ignorance of responsibility

"But it changes nothing," she tells the empty air. "Rather than call and ask him, I trade favors and call old friends."

Anything to know how he is.

Getting up from the desk, Winona thinks about making an appointment to speak with the ship's counselor. She detours for Sickbay and Sulia instead.

-

"You know, if you two keep this up, the crew's going to suspect something."

Winona can count on one hand the number of times she's met Christine Chapel and the Excelsior's chief nurse _wasn't_ smiling. Right now, it's a tiny one that she knows from experience is pure Christine. There's none of the others – all logged among the impressive repertoire of facial expressions on which all medical professionals drew – and Winona can almost read the day's progress on her face without so much as a glance at the duty logs. The Christine Chapel standing before her relaxed, loose-limbed, and in heeled boots. Research section then. Slow day.

The jokes aren't hurting either.

"Suspect something?" she echoes, deliberately obtuse.

"Mmhmm," Christine nods, "You'll break half the crew's hearts you know. The both of you."

"The both of us?" Winona grins. She sounds ridiculous, but she's enjoying herself too much to worry about it. "Exactly how does that work?"

Christine picks up a PADD and falls into step with her. "The half of the crew that isn't in love with you is in love with her."

"Well, they can stand relieved," Winona assures. "The doctor and I are nothing more than unnaturally good friends." She pauses, then laughs. "Possibly a little co-dependant, but I'm sure that's entirely on me."

"You'd be surprised," Christine says, a little cryptic. "She's in bio-lab three."

"Uh oh." Winona nods at a crewman being treated for a small burn. Cait's engine upgrades, most likely. Someone always has a run in with the plasma. "Please don't tell me -- "

"I would," Christine sighs, "but I'd be lying."

"The woman actually thinks she can cure the common cold?"

"Well, not the common one," Christine grins. "Just the Rigellian flu."

"Which is common in the Rigel system!" Winona says, protesting by rote. "And most of Starfleet." Nothing brings a starship to a halt faster than a strain of Rigellian flu and, apparently, Sulia's going after it with all the vigour of a Klingon on the hunt. "It's a waste of time. There's a new strain every time we turn around." She remembers her last bout with it – a strain that'd come into contact with a Vulcan stomach bug and generally made her life a living hell for the better part of a week.

"Mm, I know," Christine nods.

"You know, but you're not foolish enough to risk telling her that," Winona says, knowing just who around here actually _is_ and, well, she and Sulia have had worse arguments over less. She shakes her head, heading for the lab in question. "Maybe we should get together. At least we'd have the fun of making up after the fights."

-

She's not surprised, upon leaving Sickbay, to nearly run over Spock. Impeccable as he looks, she's not foolish enough to believe that's representative of anything. Clasping her hands behind her back, mirroring his posture, she looks at him with a decided sense of amusement. "Find everything you need, Commander?"

"Of course, Captain," he says, nodding. "I am familiar with all aspects of the ship."

"Sickbay and the Medical Research sections especially, hmm?" she asks, thoroughly enjoying herself. A captain takes her pleasures where she can find them. And, well, with Vulcans it's practically a certainty.

Spock doesn't do anything so base as blush, but she can sense the embarrassment nonetheless. Oh yeah, she's caught them out. She's tempted to look around for Christine – no way she's put herself back to rights as quickly as Spock, the Vulcan talent for that is as unnerving as it is annoying – but restrains herself. No need to be _too_ obvious.

"It is a part of my duties as science officer that I spend time here," he points out, flawlessly logical if one ignored the overly-tight posture and perfectly spoken Standard.

God, she loves Vulcans. To say he and Christine are adorable is an understatement of massive proportions.

"True, true," she agrees. "The thing is, Commander," she leans in, "I believe Sickbay might have other draws than just the MR labs."

He tips his head, acknowledging the point. It's not quite weary or annoyed, but he's none too pleased that she's wrung it out of him.

"You realize, Spock," she murmurs, "that it's hardly a secret."

"I am well aware, Captain," he says, "however, the enjoyment which you take from your teasing is most unseemly."

"Yep," she says without argument. "Captain's prerogative. I'm standing in for your mother." She's tempted to add 'with whom I correspond regularly,' but there's no need to cause a panic attack. Or, at least, the Vulcan equivalent thereof.

"Ah," he nods, "Very well."

Her first officer is giving her permission to tease him in lieu of his mother doing the same thing. _Vulcans_.

Without laughing, she holds up a hand. "I solemnly swear I will not abuse this privilege in the presence of the crew."

Spock gives her a look. "Much."

"All right, all right," she says with a shrug, " _Much_."

He sweeps ahead of her then, purely so she can't see the twinkle in his eye she's sure, and she lets herself grin. Whatever planet Amanda happens to be on, Winona's sure that she'll approve just as soon as she hears about it.

Which, of course, will be at her earliest opportunity. In Amanda's shoes, she'd want to know and that's a thought that stops her so quickly she very nearly trips over her own feet.

"Captain?" Spock's at her side a second later, hands not quite touching her but close enough to catch her should she need it. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," she says, but it's faint. She hadn't been thinking of Sam. It's Jim's face in her mind. Jim's features as she'd last seen him. "I just – a thought occurred to me, that's all."

"It seems to be far more severe than that," Spock says, soft. "You seem troubled."

She's never been good with vulnerability – a trait Jim's inherited from her – and it's hard to look at him now. "I was thinking of my son." She doesn't need to explain which one she means. Spock's met Sam. Corresponds with him on research.

"Ah," he nods, hands dropping back to his sides. He doesn't ask. He doesn't need to. "I will wait."

"I'm fine," she assures. "Really."

He doesn't quite believe her, that's written on his face, but he's not calling for medical assistance either so he's giving her some credit. "Nevertheless, I will wait."

"Stubborn," she says, starting forward again. She's not going to stand around and mope about the distance between her and her youngest. Sulia's right. She'd done more than enough of that. Moreover, she's got a ship depending on her.

She'll mope later.

"Bridge to Captain Kirk." T'Meni's voice stops her at the turbolift.

Winona whisks through the door, stabbing a thumb against the console as Spock steps in beside her. "Kirk here. What is it, Commander?"

"Message from Starfleet, Captain," T'Meni replies.

Her eyes flick up to the console, looking for the time. "Daily packet?"

"Yes, however -- "

"Scuttlebutt says more than just an information packet?" T'Meni doesn't answer. Winona takes that for the acknowledgement it is. "Commander Spock and I are on our way to the bridge. Transfer it to the closest briefing room." She looks at Spock. "And tell Dr. Sulia to meet us there."

"You suspect something is wrong?"

"It's a day ending in y, Spock," Winona says. "When _isn't_ something wrong?"

-

The information packet from Starfleet Command is a routine thing. Maintenance updates, routine data, and the part every captain looked for first - the intelligence updates. Usually, just the same old-same old. Good for planning routes and avoiding trouble, but not much of a picture beyond that.

Just as T'Meni's call had indicated, this packet, however, is not quite so mundane. Not even close.

"Starfleet thinks we have a problem."

Across the table, Sulia snorts. At her side, Spock raises a brow. "I believe, Captain, the doctor was attempting to suggest that you have misspoken. Starfleet has intimated in the past that we have many problems. Only some of which involve the outside sources to which you inferred earlier."

Winona bites the inside of her cheek against the grin.

Sulia laughs. "Much more eloquent than my version, but then again, my version was a lot less diplomatic too. Good show of it too." She taps a stylus against the table. "Since the three of us are here and there's a privacy lock on the door, I would guess that this particular problem may result in some most unfortunate action."

"Which is putting it mildly," Winona says. "A Romulan vessel was sighted near the Klingon border. They destroyed it, but not before it obliterated a few dozen of their ships." She breathes in, giving them both a moment to absorb the implications of that. "Command believes we may see a full-on shooting war before long."

"Not even that long," Sulia says. Her eyes are closed. Winona can imagine the images playing out behind Sulia's flawless lids. The Syndicate's ruthlessness amidst such a conflict would net it countless credits. Whoever remained of Sulia's family, the nameless Matriarch she'd called Mistress and mother both, would make more than a tidy profit dealing dilithium and weaponry to both sides. "The Syndicate will make a fortune on this."

"War is always good for business," Spock says, as if echoing her thoughts.

"Behave," Sulia warns, her eyes coming open. "Vulcans don't wear irony well." She's smiling, albeit faintly. "I know I'm stating the obvious when I say this is bad, but this is very bad."

"This is the worst possible news," Winona says in counterpoint. "You've seen the maps for yourself. The borders we share -- there's no chance that the Federation will be able to avoid getting drawn into this. We're not on particularly good ground with the Klingon Empire, but in this case, they're going to be expecting us to side with them."

"There is a matter to consider here," Spock says. He's looking at the PADD Winona had left on the table with the communication from Starfleet. "If one Romulan vessel did so much damage, it seems likely the Romulan Empire has acquired previously unknown technology."

"And if they have more of those ships, this war could be over fast," Winona nods. "I'd considered that. It makes sense. You're not going to get one ship operational and then send it out against the entire Klingon Empire." She pauses. "On the other hand, there's also the matter of it's destruction. If you had more than one such ship, why risk losing one when you have more to send with them?"

"Which leads to another option," Sulia says. "What if the ship isn't actually Romulan? What if it was a third operator? Or a faction within the Romulan Empire that wants to see the overthrow of the current Praetor?" She leans back in her chair, crossing her legs.

"Possible," Winona agrees. "We know they appeared Romulan, but images like that can and often are faked."

"You do have a point there," Sulia says. "I wouldn't put it past the Syndicate. Why wait for a war when you can just start a new one?"

There's a certain terrifying sense to that. "Know any ranking members of the Syndicate who _would_?" Winona asks, already able to guess at the answer.

"I would imagine, Captain," Spock says, "that all of them are. The higher members would have better resources toward such an end, but ambition can often compensate for wealth."

"Maybe," Winona sighs out. "It seems a bit much, but maybe." With a weary sigh, she rubs the back of her neck. "Whatever this is, it's going to be an absolute mess when it breaks."

"Then let's hope it does not."

Sulia raises an eyebrow, looking at Spock. "A _Vulcan_ is talking about hope? That doesn't precisely fill me with confidence."

"I am stating a preference for a certain outcome," Spock says, clasping his hands together behind his back. "I do not believe that to be particularly outlandish, Doctor."

"No, you wouldn't," Sulia smiles.

"I'm sure that I have no idea what you mean," Spock says, his posture stiffening up.

Winona looks at Sulia and gets a near angelic expression in response. Her answer to that is a quite indelicate snort. Island of Misfit Toys indeed.

"All right," she says, pretending to be the mature one, "Sulia, aside from the usual heads up, reach out to some contacts and see what you can find out. Spock, I know taking time away from the surveys is the last thing you want to be doing, but I need those sensors -- "

For a Vulcan, he looks absolutely aggrieved, but nods anyway. "This does indeed take precedence."

She smiles. "All right, wonderful. Well, not wonderful, but you get the idea, and I promise, as soon as we can, you'll have all the time in the world to survey every spare inch of this sector."

"I do not believe so thorough an inspection is needed, Captain, but I appreciate the intent behind it."

It's the thought that counts.

She doesn't quite laugh at hearing the Vulcan equivalent, but she wants to. Oh god, she wants to.

-

"Captain."

T'Meni. Surfacing from a stack of reports, Winona rubs the back of her neck. It's a second before she realizes the knot there has nothing to do with said reports and everything to do with the oh-so-controlled undercurrent in T'Meni's voice.

Something's wrong.

Her hand darts out, acknowledging the call. "Here."

"I believe your presence is required on the bridge," T'Meni continues. "There is a transmission from Starfleet Command; it is marked urgent."

"On my way." Winona barely takes the time to close off the channel before she's up and on the move. There's nothing in T'Meni's words to really quicken her step. Urgent transmissions from Starfleet Command can be, and occasionally are, anything from absolutely mundane to mind-bogglingly boring with only rare instances of true worry. Nothing T'Meni said breaks with that if one only listened to the words. With Vulcans, Winona long ago learned it's not the words, it's the spaces between them that you should listen to.

The spaces between T'Meni's speak fear into Winona's heart, and that's a first. Another first is the expression on Spock's face when she does reach the bridge. Whatever's happened, it's bad enough that the Vulcans are worried.

She swallows hard and puts on a controlled face. "This isn't good, is it?"

For once, they spare her the overly-involved explanations on why stating the obvious is _bad_ and all good humans shouldn't do it, which scares her all the more.

"It is not optimal," Spock hedges.

"Commander -- "

"As you are aware, Captain, hostilities have broken out between the Klingon and Romulan empires." Spock does not give her the opportunity to interrupt, continuing on smoothly to add, "This morning, the Klingon Empire annexed several systems on the edge of the demilitarized zone."

"Which, I'm sure, is giving the Federation Council absolute fits," Winona says, breaking in. "What does that have to do with us and the way you two are watching me?"

"There was a squadron of Starfleet cadets just on this side of the border," Spock replies. "We have lost contact with them. There is a chance -- "

"That they're now trapped inside Klingon space," Winona presses her lips together. It's a moment and then two of serious thought before she can ask, "Is Jim involved?"

"Yes."

Cadets in the middle of a war zone. _Her son_ in the middle of a war zone. Pinching the bridge of her nose, Winona bites back a curse. She doesn't ask what the Academy was thinking. She's long since past the point where assigning reason to anything Command or the officers in charge of the Academy does. "Of course they would be. Where else would you send cadets? Risa?"

"I am familiar with the squadron," Spock says, quiet. "They are considered the elite of the elite, more capable than some experienced officers."

"I'm familiar with the squadron as well, Mr. Spock," she says, her smile's just a little tired, a little too sharp, and she doesn't need the briefest flicker of hesitation on his face to know it. "I commanded it once."

She sits in her chair, looking at the viewscreen, aware of the watchful eye of her bridge crew.

Jim is out there. Her baby boy. Her son. He's out there with Klingons and Romulans both circling him, neither concerned with a handful of Starfleet cadets getting caught in the crossfire.

"Captain," Spock's voice is soft, for her ears alone, as he steps closer to her chair. "Your orders?"

She looks sideways at him, his expression now is one of muted concern. For him, that's flagrant worry and her smile is more genuine. "We can't just leave them out there, Commander. Starfleet frowns on inexperienced youngsters behind enemy lines." Even if, just four hours ago, they _weren't_ enemy lines.

"All right." Sliding out of her chair, she looks back at T'Meni. "I need everything and anything we can get on that training mission. If we're going to plan a half-decent rescue, I need some decent tactical statistics."

"At this distance, it will take some time," T'Meni warns, but her hands are already playing the board, fingers moving like a concert pianist.

"Do what you can," Winona says, curbing the instinct to snap. "Somebody get Medical moving. We may have casualties and, well," she looks to tactical, "better do a quick count on the torpedoes. We're heading smack into a fight." With a sigh, she shakes her head and then looks at Spock. "So much for our great plan of exploration. It would appear your nebula is going to have to wait, Mr. Spock."

"As you would say, Captain, first things first," Spock says.

Winona grins. "So very true, Commander, so very true. All right," she gestures, hand sweeping out to encompass the bridge. "Have at it. I'll do my best to stay out of your way."

She looks at the bridge crew, watching them begin to move. Before long, the rest of the crew will be doing the same, as her orders are passed down the chain of command.

Spock moves from her side, across the bridge and around each to each post and officer manning it. He'll speak with the other department heads, co-ordinate search and rescue teams with T'Meni. This crew has never conducted such a rescue mission together. They've all performed such searches, but on other crews and in other sectors. It'll require a firm hand, closer attention, but he has her confidence. They all do.

They won't need it, but she needs to make that vow. This isn't just any mission. This is her son and, as soon as the grapevine kicks in, the entire crew will know just how much pressure they're really under.

She'd apologize, but it's her son. The captain in her will be proud of them either way, but the mother will accept only one outcome.

She wants her son back.

-

Spock is waiting when she leaves the bridge, standing just inside the turbolift in his preferred stance. Looking at him, Winona can almost pretend this isn't about Jim. A tiny flicker of uncertainty is enough to destroy any attempt at pretense however. Spock is dreading the impending conversation.

Winona lets the turbolift door slide shut before turning to look at him. "All right, Commander, let's hear it." Letting the turbolift car just sit there for a moment, she leans back against the wall and hopes like hell that she's projecting the image of calm and control.

He doesn't precisely frown, but she can see him puzzling over her response and his own approach to it.

"We both know what you're looking to talk about, Spock," she says, quieter. "Out with it."

That gets a nod of agreement out of him. "Duty requires that I ask these questions of you," he says. Whether he's reminding her or reminding himself Winona doesn't ask. "In regards to your son's involvement -- "

"I can handle it." The answer doesn't come right away. She won't be so insulting as to pretend anything or answer without thinking. "I can't say that it'll be all that easy, but I can handle it. I have to. We don't have the time to wait for another ship and we can't guarantee that any replacements would make it past the Klingons or the Romulans."

She looks at him, not unsympathetic to his predicament. "Your concerns are understood and noted."

"It has been quite some time since you saw your sons," Spock says, careful. She nearly smiles at the caution in his tone. It's not typical for him to be so tentative about a question, but family is a new topic for them. She's never pushed him about his parents, and he's never before inquired about hers sons.

But then again, neither his parents nor her sons have ever been trapped behind enemy lines before.

"I saw Sam last year," she says, smiling. "When he and Aurelan moved to Deneva." Her smile fades just as quickly as it bloomed. "Jim's another story." She hasn't seen Jim since he left home. They communicate, if one can call it that. Messages on her birthday, messages a day or two after his, always on Christmas and infrequently the rest of the time when they can.

Nothing since he joined the Academy, but she doesn't blame him for that. She'd do the same in his shoes.

"It will be..." She looks at him and tries to smile. "It will be _interesting_ to see him again."

Spock stares back with eyes that are full of veiled concern. Looking at him, her smile comes a lot easier. "Thank you," she says, quiet. "I appreciate your concern, Spock."

He nods, but it's more a duck of his head. Bashful. It's adorable. She can see what drew Christine's interest.

"You have been most kind, Captain," he says. "I believe in such circumstances, it is best to reciprocate."

"And you've done it quite well," she says. It's instinct to reach out and touch him, but she refrains. He's a Vulcan. For all the guidance she's given him, will give him, he's still a Vulcan. "As both a responsible first officer _and_ as a friend."

She reaches for the wall control and sets a destination. "I believe, Mr. Spock, the bridge is yours."

He hesitates only for a second before stepping out and leaving her to it.

-

Winona curls fingers around a mug, waiting for the hot liquid to cool as she stares at the screen and wills the relayed message to come in from the bridge. They're not so far out that communication with Earth is impossible, visual included, but she's not waiting for just any message. She's waiting for official permission from Starfleet Command (or, more accurately, the Federation Council) to cross the border into Klingon-occupied space.

She knows where the hold-up is, and she can't really blame the Federation Council for it. The Klingon Empire is spoiling for a fight. Even in the midst of one war, no one in the Chancellor's inner circle will argue adding another to the mix. If the Klingons won't be careful, the Federation will have to be. Winona can understand; Jim's in danger, but she's not crossing that line without official documentation backing her up.

"No word yet?"

Winona casts a glance at Sulia. "None."

With a mug of her own, Sulia puts her feet up and slouches on the sofa. She stares at the brown ceramic and doesn't blink. "How're you holding up?"

"Who's asking?" Winona gets up. She can't look at the screen for another second. A few steps takes her to a chair across from Sulia. "My chief medical officer or my friend?"

"You know the answer to that," Sulia says. "Otherwise, Helen would be sitting here and not me." She takes a tentative sip of the coffee and makes a face. "Needs more Irish." She pauses, then looks at Winona. "Which, of course, I did not just say."

"Didn't hear a thing," Winona assures. She looks at her boots, wishing she could toe them off and curl up by the fire. She'd never thought she'd miss Iowa, but she does now. She misses the house and George's favorite chair by the window, the one that had the best view of the fields beyond. "And as a captain, I'm concerned about taking my crew into a hostile territory." She exhales. "As a mother, I'm out of my mind with worry."

Sulia nods. "Jim's resourceful. He'll be fine."

"I know," Winona agrees. "At least, I think I know." She leans her head back against the chair. "I let too much time go. We haven't spoken to each other in years, Sulia. He's my little boy, and I let him walk out of my life without so much as a fight." She doesn't count half-hearted messages at holidays and birthdays to be talking. The last time she and Jim had spoken had been years back, before the stream of arrests and bar fights had begun.

"Don't let yourself go to that place, Win," Sulia says. "Whatever responsibility you bear in all this, Jim carries more than a little of his own."

"I know," Winona says, quiet. "I just can't let myself use that as an escape. If -- " If Jim dies. She can't bring herself to say it. She can't. She lost George. She can't lose one of her boys. "God, I wish we were on Deneva right now." On Deneva at Sam's with Aurelan singing, music playing, and her boys bickering over dinner while Sulia danced with her grandson.

She smiles at the thought of him, picturing his chubby-cheeked face. The smile lasts as long as it takes to wonder if Jim has even met his nephew.

"Well, after this is all said and done, make some leave plans."

"We're barely into the mission," Winona replies.

"The Klingons and the Romulans have gone to war," says Sulia, "the mission has already changed."

"So much for bringing Starfleet back to its exploration roots."

"What's the point of exploring if there's no one left at home?" Sulia puts down her mug, rolling onto her side to look at Winona. Her dark eyes are somber, pragmatic, but it's the concern that gets to her. The Orion way of life didn't leave much room for optimists or dreamers, Sulia was ruthlessly pragmatic at the best of times. An absolute cynic the rest of the time. Even so, beneath the flatly practical words, there's a shred of something that might be called hope. "We'll deal with this, Win," she says. "And then we'll go back to dreaming."

Winona's desk chimes and she rises. Sulia's words echo in her ears as she sits behind the desk and looks at the screen.

"We have a go?" Sulia asks, getting up as well.

After taking the time to read the message first, Winona nods. "We have a go."

"All right then," Sulia says. "I'll get to Sickbay and get things moving."

-

Mai's waiting for her when Winona steps onto the bridge Still at her station, of course, but she is undoubtedly waiting. From where Winona is standing, she can see Mai's fingers dancing up and down on her console. It's a sure sign she has something, and Win detours down the steps, heading for the navigation console.

"Something to share, Lieutenant?"

"Sensor sweeps," Mai says, turning to face her. "The squadron was using a decommissioned NX class. I tracked the warp signature to a specific sector, but the trail goes cold there."

She inhales slowly, carefully, and Winona can almost watch the process of putting together a sentence. "Commander Spock's trying to enhance sensor resolution, give us a better look at that sector. If the ship is there, we'll find it."

It's the 'if' part that Winona can't stand. She curls her fingers around the back of Mai's chair, leaning in to look at the console. "It all depends on if they were sighted and who did the sighting."

Mai nods. "The Klingons would destroy her outright, but the Romulans might be interested in what the crew had to tell them." She looks up. "Have we gotten specifics from Starfleet yet?"

"Came in with the authorization to cross the border," Winona nods. "There are experienced officers on that ship. The cadets aren't alone." Which is a relief. Some of the names are familiar. Jim has good people watching over him, and if there was a shooting fight with either the Klingons or the Romulans he wasn't going to be out there on his own. They can handle it, and she's just going to keep on telling herself that for as long as it takes to believe it.

Mai's hands fly over the console, fingertips dancing through commands with a speed that's dizzying. "If the ship was destroyed -- " she pulls up the system in question " -- there are a couple M-class worlds. Nothing like Risa, but enough they can find some shelter and defensible ground."

"Good." Mai's right. Not a one of the planets in that system is a paradise, but they'll make do. Winona scrunches her nose. "If they're there -- "

"They have to be," Mai says, looking up at her. "It's your son."

"Not just mine," Winona says, but smiles and pats her on the back. "Let me know what else you come up with. Once we cross into Klingon space, we're not going to have a lot of time to look around."

"I'm synced in with Astrometrics," Mai says. "Whichever they say is the most likely target, I'll get us there as fast as this ship can take us."

It's an empty promise. If the ship has crashed, if they're alive and on one of those planets, then that burst of speed won't do much. Whatever planet Astrometrics pegs as the most likely possibility, there'll be sensors and search parties to contend with. Klingons and Romulans to dodge. Nothing about this is going to be easy, but nothing ever is where Jim is concerned.

Another pat to Mai's shoulder, and she's moving away. Spock is bent over his sensor hood, the light from the readouts flickering over his features.

She watches him until he turns his head, meeting her gaze. "Something I can assist you with, Captain?"

She moves closer. "Not especially. Not unless you want to rehash my discussion with Lieutenant Chao." Leaning against his console, she looks at him. "You were listening, right?"

"Always," Spock nods. "The planets will be prioritized and ready within the next half hour."

"Which means you've found something," Winona says, crowding in to look at the sensor data herself. "Mai said you were trying to enhance sensor resolution."

"And I have," Spock agrees. "There is debris. The alloys of which match the NX class."

"Did we get a signature on weapons?"

"Multiple," Spock says, sounding almost cranky. "Romulan, Klingon, and Starfleet. At this time, it is impossible to determine who fired upon whom and when."

"So we have no idea if they both fired on our people or if our people stumbled into a shooting match," Winona says with a sigh. She stands up and looks at him. "I'm going with you."

"Captain," Spock's crankiness increases exponentially when he's clinging to regulation. "It is ill-advised -- "

"I know, and I accept that," Winona says, nodding. "Captain's privilege," she grins. "As annoying as it might seem, I plan on being there to save the day. Or, at least, take all the credit."

-

 

She makes a habit of walking her ship. The Excelsior's no different in design from any other Constitution-class vessel in layout, but it's _hers_. She doesn't try to justify and explain that, it just is. She needs to walk it, see it for herself, and know where everything and everyone is.

By now, everyone's used to her routine. No one stops what they're doing, long since abandoned the traditional protocols in the face of a captain more interested in expediency than spit and polish, content to let her be as she prowls through their departments. If it bothers them, no one ever says. She likes to think that it doesn't, whether that's true or not, and no one's in any apparent hurry to discourage her.

It's peaceful, doing this. She likes the pace of it, the even rhythm of her stride, and the familiarity. Faces and names connect with each circuit of the ship and, right now especially, she needs it.

Winona nods at Ensign Galway as she passes. The girl nods back, a little stiff and a little awkward, not quite able to hide her nervousness. Barely out of the Academy, she bears the same wide-eyed naivete common in the junior ranks. The lucky few might make a year before losing that, but not her crew. There's a fight coming. Whether it's with the Klingons, the Romulans, or a little of both. Either way there's a fight coming and that wide-eyed look is going to go the way of the dinosaur.

"Captain?"

Stopping mid-step, Winona looks back. "Yes, Ensign?"

The girl, and she can't help but see her as that, hesitates. She's not sure why she's stopped her captain. Winona remembers that feeling well. No matter how many years have passed, she'll never forget it. Every second that passes is another second closer to a fight. Knowing that you didn't know how you were going to handle it. How you were going to come out of it, or _if_ you were going to come out of it. Throw onto that the jumble of nerves the whole thing turned you into and a complete inability to deal with any of it -- looking for reassurance from your commanding officer was the best possible move.

Not without sympathy, Winona leans forward. "Forgive my memory, Ensign, but your assignment?"

"Astrometrics, ma'am," Galway replies, brightening. Familiar territory. "I've been assisting the bridge on prioritizing those planets. I think we've almost got it narrowed down."

"Wonderful," Winona says, nodding. "Excellent work. It'll help us get in and out as quickly as we can."

"And avoid the Klingons, ma'am?"

"Hopefully. The best possible scenario means getting us in and out without engaging in combat." As much as she'd like to, she can't just leave it there. "It's more likely, however, that they'll still be in the area."

Galway nods. "I know." She laughs a little, shaking her head. "I know what they taught us in the Academy, but --"

"It's never like the simulations," Winona finishes. "I remember. Starfleet does its best to make them as realistic as possible, but you can never quite forget it's not real." And this is definitely going to be. "Remember your training, keep to your post, and follow your superior's league. I won't promise that everything will be all right, but you remember that and it'll get you through."

That gets a slower nod in response, more thoughtful.

"It may seem silly of me to say this, but it's all right to feel scared." She smiles. "We all are."

This time, Ensign Galway - Arlene. That's her name. Arlene. - smiles back. "Even you?"

" _Especially_ me," Winona assures. She resists the temptation to squeeze the girl's hands, she's her commanding officer afterall. "I handle it the same way." She pauses, then grins, "Also Commander Spock riding shotgun doesn't hurt either."

Galway laughs. It's not a bright, cheerful thing, but it's honest and a little relieved. "Lucky."

"Something like that," Winona agrees, feeling the moment already starting to slip.

A second later, Galway's looking over her shoulder. "I should probably -- "

"Oh, by all means," Winona holds up her hands. "Consider yourself dismissed." She backs up a few steps, waiting for the ensign to turn and walk away. When she does, Winona gives herself permission to do the same.

At the turbolift, she looks back in time to see a door slide shut behind the ensign. "I'm sorry." It's not fair to do this to her crew. She'd wanted more time with them. A chance to prepare them.

Stepping into the turbolift, she shakes her head. Time. Since when has time ever been a friend to the Kirk family?

-

"We've got them."

It's Ensign Galway that tells her, eyes bright with triumph, waving a PADD in the air. A PADD that Mai snatches out of her hand with a lightning fast grab, practically vaulting the railing in her rush to get back to the conn.

Wide-eyed, the ensign watches the entire process as Spock and the others converge on Mai. "At least," she stammers out, "we _think_ so."

Winona can see the nerves creeping up on Galway as she starts second-guessing herself. She remembers that feeling too. "All right," she says, catching the girl's eye. "Let's hear your findings. Tell me why you think you have them." She's careful to pick a tone of voice that's curious, not doubtful, in hopes it'll actually be reassuring.

She listens, carefully, as the ensign explains the process by which Astrometrics had narrowed down the list of possible planets and then correlated them with sensor data provided by Spock to generate the most likely target.

"It's an educated guess," Ensign Galway adds, "but -- "

"In your professional opinion -- "

"In my professional opinion, if they're on a planet in this system, it's going to be that one."

"Then we make our run at it," Winona says. "Mai, start planning. We're going to need to make this quick and dirty."

-

The girl before her is young. Face smudged with dirt, and very, very green. Literally. She's wearing the field uniform of a cadet, ripped and as dirty as her face, and gripping a phaser in both hands.

At least, that is, until she sights Winona's face. Then she brings up solid with a brilliant smile and a near flawless salute. "Captain."

"Cadet." Winona keeps tight grip on her own phaser as she steps forward, picking her way across the rock. "I wasn't aware there were other Orions serving in Starfleet." This is half-said to Sulia, close at her heels, but at the cadet as well.

"Starfleet doesn't like to brag," Sulia demurs, then looks at the girl. She's not precisely smiling as she does, but she's not hostile either.

It's strange. Winona's never seen two Orions interact before and it strikes her, again, how little she truly knows of Sulia's people and her culture. It strikes her that she's never seen Orions travel together. If any of them venture out of Orion-controlled space on anything other than raiding ships, she's never seen it.

She doesn't feel guilty. At least, rationally she doesn't. Sulia keeps everything to herself. Aside from random, casual references to the Orion Syndicate and the women that controlled it, there's a lot Sulia won't say, and what she does say, Winona doesn't precisely trust.

Sulia's loyalty is absolute, but that loyalty extended to protecting Winona even from herself and, sometimes, by any means necessary. Lying included.

She's sure that most of what Sulia's told her is the truth, but she's not sure enough.

Either way, she finds herself watching the interaction between Sulia and the, as yet, unnamed cadet with a curiosity that's not entirely idle. She's not surprised by the wariness in the girl's eyes. The Syndicate and its byzantine politics are a decade or more behind Sulia, but Winona doubts that of the cadet.

Whatever Sulia's instincts are saying, she betrays nothing. Without hesitation, she flips open her tricorder and sets to work.

It's all quite anti-climatic, but Winona doesn't care at the moment. She's got greater concerns to deal with; unpacking the intricacies of Orion interpersonal dynamics will have to wait until later. "Where are the others?" she asks, impressed by her own even tone when really, she wants to grab the girl and shake Jim's whereabouts out of her.

"Shelter," the cadet says, enduring Sulia's examination. "My turn to get water." She smiles, albeit grimly. "I have better luck avoiding the patrols."

"Patrols?"

"Romulans," the girl says. "Klingons. Whoever's searching the planet when they're not shooting at each other." She gestures over her shoulder at the rocky hillside. "There's some kind of mineral in the planet's soil that makes it impossible to scan. We've taken shelter there."

"The ship?"

"Gone." The cadet shrugs. "It wasn't much to begin with." Starfleet wouldn't have spared any better. Not for a training mission in a supposedly safe system.

Neither the Klingons nor the Romulans had provided much indication of interest.

Winona sets her jaw, biting back opinions as to why. "All right then, Cadet -- "

"Gaila," the cadet - Gaila - says as Sulia steps away. "My name is Gaila."

"Okay, Cadet Gaila, let's go. We can't beam your people out until we can get a transporter lock on them and, I'm willing to bet, communicators don't work up there either." Winona starts forward, but Spock's gentle clearing of his throat stops her cold.

She turns her head, ready to call him on it, when she sees the look in his eye. Moving closer, she does him the courtesy of lowering her phaser before speaking.

"You want me to go back to the ship, don't you?"

"It would be best, Captain," he says. "The cadet has confirmed Romulan and Klingon presence on this planet, and we cannot be certain they have not enlisted her assistance. Moreover, as we are unable to use sensors, we cannot be sure of their movements."

For a moment, she's ready to argue. Jim's up there. Jim's up there potentially hurt, dying, or any number of things she doesn't want to consider. She needs to get up there and that's precisely the reason she sighs and lets the fight drain out of her.

"I know, I know," she mutters. "I said I would handle it."

"Yes, you did," Spock says. "I believe in this situation, I should be the one to lead the party into the caves. If only for security's sake. We cannot permit you to fall into the hands of either the Romulans or the Klingons. I'm sure Cadet Kirk would say the same."

"He needs a rescue mission, not his Mommy, right?" she asks, only a little bitter.

"I would not phrase it in such fashion," Spock says without rancor. "However, your sentiments are not so far from point."

Winona looks back at the waiting Orions and the Excelsior security staff. She bites the inside of her cheek against the urge to swear. "All right. I'm heading back to the ship. You keep me updated on everything as soon as you can."

"If we are not back aboard within the hour, I would suggest an orbital bombardment."

In theory, he's kidding, but Winona can see a scenario or two playing out in just that fashion.

"Don't tempt me, Commander," she says, pulling out her communicator. "Otherwise, I just might."

-

After beaming aboard, she nods at the lieutenant managing the transporter and heads into the hallway. Walking past the waiting medical team, she goes straight for the communication console. "Kirk to bridge."

T'Meni's response is precisely what she'd expected it to be. No dancing about, no hesitations, just a calmly spoken, "I am maintaining an open channel with Doctor Sulia. There is interference from the planet's mineral deposits, but as yet I have experienced only moderate difficulties compensating."

"Good. I'm on my way up."

"Captain," calls Christine. She breaks away from the medical team and walks closer. "Before you go -- any word? Last I'd heard from the bridge they'd found an Orion cadet."

"Right now, that's all we have," Winona replies. "She's in good health. The others were taking refuge in the hills. As you just heard, the planet's mineral composition interferes with sensors and she has to physically escort our people up there. Hopefully, with them on site to provide coordinates, we'll be able to beam the cadets out."

"We can't see them on sensors." It's not a question. She can see Christine following the thought through. "We can't see anyone else down there either."

"Precisely why I'm up here and not down there. Mr. Spock and I agreed it was an unnecessary risk for both of us to be on the mission." Opening another channel, Winona puts a call through to security and orders up a second detail. She doesn't know if there actually are any hostiles on the planet, but she's been doing this long enough not to take any chances. Thumbing the channel closed, she looks at Christine. "Just in case."

Christine nods. "I'll put Sickbay on alert." Her smile echoes Winona's. "Just in case."

"Good plan." And like all good plans, she hopes they won't need to use it.

-

They always do.

-

Somewhere between decks ten and four, the lights overhead flicker, go dull, and then flare to full efficiency, backlit by the pulsing red of a shipwide alert. Over the alarm, she hears T'Meni's voice, "Red alert, all hands to battlestations, captain to the bridge."

It's simple, efficient, and said so calmly she might have been commenting on the weather.

"Who and where?" Winona calls out even as the turbolift doors are opening.

Vulcan hearing being what it is, she doesn't have to repeat herself. "Klingon and Romulan ships," T'Meni replies while Mai reclaims her station from her replacement, leaving the captain's chair free for Winona. "Both are refusing to respond to our attempts at communication."

"And are coming in with weapons hot," Mai adds.

Winona takes her seat with a soft sigh. "Of course they are." Turning her attention to the Caitian sitting at Mai's side, she asks, "M'Ral, any particularly interesting moves you've always wanted to try at the helm of a starship?"

The lieutenant turns her head, whiskers giving a faint twitch of interest. " _Any_ , Captain?"

"Mmhmm, we've got stranded cadets and two landing parties on that planet. We're not leaving them, so I want to keep our friends out there dancing for as long as possible." Winona grins. "I'm not particularly worried about dinging the fenders, so feel free to get _creative_." Knowing M'Ral's academy record, that's asking for trouble, but she really doesn't mind so much.

Hell, part of her is looking forward to it.

M'Ral's tail flicks ominously, but the look in her eyes is gleeful. "Aye aye, Captain," she says, turning back to her station.

"Might want to bust out the seatbelts, people," Winona says. "Mai, give me a view of our friends. T'Meni, open a channel. I'd like to say hello."

Truthfully, she'd like to tell them something else entirely, but there are tender ears on the bridge and she's supposed to care about that sort of thing. In truth, she usually does, but there are a bunch of kids―hers included―depending on what she does next and that sort of thing makes a captain a little impatient.

She waits for T'Meni's nod of encouragement and then clears her throat, "This is Captain Winona Kirk of the Federation starship Excelsior. Klingon and Romulan vessels, you are in violation of our sovereign territory and are hereby ordered to retreat from our space at once." Licking her lips, she leans forward slightly as she adds, "If you do not, be aware that I have been given full authorization to use as much force as I see necessary, and this vessel is capable of far more force than the NX-class vessel you encountered this morning."

A flick of her finger and T'Meni closes the channel.

She doesn't have to wait long. Space around the Romulan ship wavers and it disappears under full cloak. Winona's not foolish enough to believe they've actually gone anywhere, but she can appreciate a shrewd move when she sees one. The Romulan commander's fully content to leave them to slugging it out and then finish off whoever happens to survive.

"You have to admit," she says, philosophical, "the Romulans are damn good tacticians." She tips her head, eyeing the Klingon ship. "However," the ship opens fire, spitting energy at them with a barrage of torpedoes right on its heels, "You also have to appreciate the Klingon propensity for forthright hostility."

She likes dealing with Klingons. No tap-dancing, no skullduggery, just a clean, honest fight. Well, a fight anyway. Sometimes the Klingon idea of clean and honest is galaxies away from the human version, but they're paragons of virtue compared to the Romulans.

Mostly.

"Mai, return fire, M'Ral, now would be a good time to go dancing."

Winona's fingers curl around the edges of her chair's arms, the hard surface digging into her skin with the force of it. It's the only sign of her agitation. She keeps her orders to a minimum, trusting M'Ral and Mai to do their jobs without a captain riding herd on their movements. She's never been fond of that style of command. She knows how to pilot a ship, but it's been years since she did so under fire and she's not stupid or arrogant enough to think she can do it better. Instead, she bites back on the urge to say something and lets the two of them work. It's the first time they've done so under heavy fire, but watching them work is still a thing of beauty. Good helmsmen and navigators are hard to find, finding two equally brilliant ones that can work together even harder, but she's struck gold and she gets to watch it.

"Captain," T'Meni raises her voice to be heard over the controlled chaos of the fight and the litany of damage reports flooding in from the lower decks, but she doesn't have to. The edge in her voice has Winona turning anyway. "We have word from the planet. Commander Spock reports success and requests we beam them up at our earliest opportunity."

Winona snaps a look toward the screen, scowling openly at the Klingon ship. "M'Ral, Mai, if you could kindly get that ship out of my sky.." She's supposed to try and find a diplomatic way out of this. She knows that. She knows that someone back in the Federation's upper ranks will look at this day and complain about how she handled things. She's sure that same being will probably call into question her judgement and the fact that it's possibly compromised by her son being involved.

She just hopes that whoever happens to be their direct superior will recognize the sheer stupidity of that idea.

"T'Meni, open a channel again," she says. "We might as well do the preliminaries before we blast him to Sto'vo'kor."

And therein lay the crux of the matter. Klingon diplomacy is best done in the fire of a torpedo strike.

"Last chance, Commander," she says to the faceless Klingon. "There's no honour to be found in a pointless death, either for your crew or mine." She sucks in a breath between words, putting more satisfaction into her words than she can ever really feel at the idea of taking lives, "If I'm going to kill a Klingon, there's no fun in letting a Romulan soften him up for me first."

Winona imagines that probably gets a bark of laughter from her opponent, what she isn't expecting is the confirmation she gets a second later.

"Captain," T'Meni cuts in, "they are hailing us." Her eyebrow is raised. "And seem most-- _amused_."

"I imagined so," Winona says. "All right, hopefully this will buy us enough time. T'Meni, think you can get word to Spock? In about thirty seconds Mai is going to drop the aft shields just long enough to beam them up. They need to be ready. I don't know where that Romulan ship is, and I'm guessing he's not above taking the shot if it presents itself."

T'Meni nods. "Understood."

"Good. Pass that on to Spock and the transporter room and then let our Klingon friend through before he stops laughing."

She probably shouldn't have worried about that one. The Klingon commander is definitely still laughing when T'Meni puts him on the main viewscreen. Said laugh is loud, obnoxious, but damn if she doesn't catch herself wanting to grin in response.

"Captain Kirk."

"Commander -- "

"Kang."

"Commander Kang. You seem to be a little far out of your way, don't you think?"

Kang slumps in his chair, the picture of a benevolent dictator toying with an underling. Winona might be scared if she didn't think it was so damn funny. He scratches at a scar on his face. It's new. The way his fingers stray absently over it suggests an unfamiliarity. At least, that's her basic, xenopsychology 101 opinion that's only good for filling the moments between witty banter and phaser strikes. "I do not believe so, Captain. This sector has been claimed by the Empire." He grins insolently at her. "The Federation was not using it. It seemed a shame to let it lie so ignored."

"Ah, but we were," she crosses her legs, matching his attitude. "As you learned this morning. Really, Commander? A ship of cadets?"

"They were in Klingon space." He shrugs as if that explains it all. Of course, for him it does. "As you now are."

"Ah, but we're back to that again," Winona says. "This _isn't_ Klingon space. The Federation isn't all that interested in your petty squabbles with the Romulans, unless it happens to spill over into our territory. This qualifies as spillage. You can't go grabbing up all the good planets just because they happen to be close to key Romulan targets." She lets her eyes harden. "Just because these are uninhabited doesn't mean we're fool enough to believe the next ones will be."

She can read a map. She knows which planets are probably already under Klingon interest and some of them are very, very inhabited.

"And yet Starfleet has sent only one ship?"

"Starfleet only _needs_ one ship," she says, serene. "If you hadn't noticed, Commander, you're one well-placed torpedo strike from the afterlife. I gave you a second chance. Surely you're wise enough to know you won't get a third. The next order to come out of my mouth is going to be a command to destroy your vessel. Is an uninhabited system really worth a dishonourable death?"

She shakes her head. "I thought better of your people than that, Commander, truly I did. It's disappointing, but perhaps the Romulans will be more obliging." She turns in her chair. "T'Meni -- "

"Captain Kirk," Kang cuts in. There's anger in his voice, but grudging admiration as well. She has him by the balls and they both know it. She's backed him into a corner. No Klingon crew is going to accept a pointless death when so crudely pointed out to them by an adversary and especially not with the Romulans watching. She's just glad he's warrior enough to appreciate it. "It is a pity that we did not face you under better circumstances." His expression becomes a ferocious grin. "I would enjoy facing you in battle."

She matches him grin for grin. "I know. I'd enjoy killing you."

He barks another laugh. She hears echoes from the crewmen around him. Great. She has Klingon fans. Starfleet Command will love this one. She talked her way out of a fight with the Klingons, and they _admired her_ for it.

Either that or they think she's one step above a performing Targ, but she doesn't care. It worked.

Kang shakes his head. "Very well. We will leave you your worthless rocks and your cadets. I cannot say the same for the Romulan _petaQ_ hiding behind their cloak."

"Well, if you happen to see them, feel free to finish them off," Winona waves her hand. "Unless I see them first."

He says something that might be 'good hunting' in Klingon, but her Klingon is rusty, and she doesn't care enough to ask T'Meni. She's just relieved when the screen goes back to a starfield that shows a Klingon ship―badly damaged and not just by the Romulans, she lets herself have a moment of satisfaction about that―turning away.

"Tell me that the cadets are aboard," she says, turning to face T'Meni and gets her son instead. "Jim?"

Standing between her and Communication, her son is a complete mess. His uniform is an utter ruin, his arm is in a sling and his face is more muck than mire and he's still the most beautiful thing she's ever seen.

He manages a crooked grin that's as nervous and unsettled as she feels. "Captain."

She narrows her gaze. "Cadet, why aren't you in Sickbay?"

He takes a step down, moving closer, and she feels more than sees her crew suddenly become so very interested in their stations. "Well," Jim says, almost in a whisper, "I kind of wanted my Mom."

Winona doesn't cry, but damn is it a close one.

"Sickbay," she says, instead, her voice rough. "Mai, you have the conn. If the Romulans do make an appearance, blow them up please."

"Aye Captain," Mai says, but Winona isn't listening.

She's walking her son off the bridge.

-

"Mom..."

"Shut up and let me hug you." There's a dozen watchful eyes on them, at least, and Winona's not the least bit interested.

Neither is her son.

His arm reset and regenerated, Jim doesn't hesitate to wrap both of them around Winona and squeeze tight. "I fucked up," he says into her ear.

"Well, you get that from me," she says, laughing and crying all at once. "Not that your father was any better at it."

"Doomed," Jim agrees, nodding. He pulls back, looking at her. " _Mom_ , I didn't mean―"

"I know what you're talking about," and she does. She can feel the tension beneath the surface, but right now, she doesn't care about history and their ruin of a relationship. She just cares that he's _here_ , alive, and she can hold him again. "I'd like just this moment, please. Let me be proud of my son. You did an amazing job down there."

He grins, so much like his father it _aches_. "I did, didn't I? Think they'll promote me for it?"

Before she can tease him about his ego, Jim's watching the people around them. Some of his cadets. His eyes fill with pride and she knows that feeling too. "It wasn't just you," she agrees. "I know."

"They're _amazing_ , Mom," Jim says, honest. "You should have seen them down there. Everywhere we looked there were search teams, Klingon and Romulan, and nobody panicked."

"They'll have every captain in the Fleet fighting over them after this," Winona agrees. She smiles and follows his gaze, settling on one young man at Sulia's side. "Though you may have trouble getting my doctor to give that one up."

If McCoy actually makes it back to the Academy and finish out his term it won't be for Sulia's lack of cajoling. She's watching him work with eyes that scream of certain pirate tendencies and Winona bites her cheek against the urge to laugh.

"She looks like she's in love," Jim says.

Winona can't stop a little chuckle. "With his surgical skills at least."

Jim nods, "He belongs out here already. Bones slings a mean laser scalpel." The words are light-hearted, but there's bedrock underneath.

"A friend?"

"Best one I've ever had," Jim agrees. "He's almost better with the lectures than he is the scalpel. When he found out about—when he found out about us and everything, he insisted I call you. "

"Hmm, smarter than he looks," Winona says, laughing.

Jim grins. "That's what he says about me, when I listen to him anyway. He's right more than I like to admit."

"Then I like him already," Winona says. She lets her smile fade and reaches up to cup his cheek. "I'm sorry. I should have called earlier. _My_ best friend said the same thing and I should have listened to her."

"We've been over that," Jim says, sad. "You're not the only one." He looks down at his ruined uniform. "I was going to call you about this, but I kept putting it off and it just got easier to tell myself tomorrow."

Winona sucks in a breath and looks past him. "I hate you."

Standing in the a few feet away, Sulia smirks. "Just because I'm always right doesn't mean you have to sulk about it."

"Okay, I sort of have an idea what you guys are talking about, but you could possibly not do it right now?" Jim asks. "I'm trying to have an emotionally revealing moment here and the sarcasm is kind of killing it."

"Sorry," Winona says, but she's laughing. "Sulia is fond of insisting you're _my_ son."

Jim blinks. "That was in doubt?"

"No, but just the same, we keep insisting on proving it anyway," she shrugs. "I was telling myself the same thing."

"And me," Sulia says. "It grew rather tedious after a while."

"Mind swapping doctors?" Winona asks, looking at her son. "I'm tired of mine."

"You wouldn't like mine any better," Jim says, chagrined. "He's going to tell me the same things just as soon as we're alone. It's a goddamn miracle he's kept his mouth shut this long."

"Distracted him with patients," Sulia calls out, turning to go. "He's muttering at them right now. I can send him in if you want."

"I hate her too," Jim says.

"That's my boy," Winona says, proud.

-

When Jim's sprung from Sickbay, she's waiting. She's waiting and she's all but dancing in eagerness. "You're excited," he says, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed in a clean uniform. Borrowed as they're definitely not the cadet reds.

"I get to show my son my ship," she says, serene. "What mother wouldn't be excited about that?"

He grins and then sighs. "Mom..."

"Sweetheart," she cuts him off, giving herself permission to be a person for once. "I know what you're going to say and don't. Neither one of us is the type for grand emotional speeches. We've made our mistakes, we've tortured ourselves for them, and now we're here and we're together. That's the only thing that matters to me, all right?"

He looks at her. Really looks and, maybe for the first time, really sees her. It's fine by her. This is probably the first time she's really seen him and, good and bad, she adores him for it.

"All right," he says.

She bites her lip. "There's just one thing."

"Which is?"

"Play nice with Spock?"

His eyes narrow. "Why?"

She grins. "It's a long story, but the short version is, I just talked us out of one war. Please don't make me talk us out of another one."

Jim makes a face. It's the 'god, my Mom's weird' expression most children employ at some point in their childhood. It's a few years late, but she loves it anyway.

"Promise me, James Tiberius," she says, putting the extra emphasis on his second name.

"Aw, _Mom_!"

"Promise me -- " she insists and grins at his expression.

"Fine. Fine. Whoever Spock is, I promise to be nice."

-

That lasts about thirty seconds.

Kirk luck.

It should have only lasted ten.

Between arguments, Winona looks at Sulia and grins. "George would be so proud."

"No, he'd find it funny as hell," Sulia counters, " _You_ are proud."

Winona reaches for the liquor, recounting Jim and Spock's latest spat as she does, and absolutely doesn't argue the point.

As annoying as it is, once again, Sulia's right.

Damn it.


End file.
